


wait for me, love. i'll find you.

by JustAKilljoy



Series: deep breaths, everyone; your hearts are pounding [2]
Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, CIA, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Resistance, Washington D.C., Yea Uh, but cypher is a Distinguished Dumbass, cypher is a dumbass, enjoy, omen takes a beating or two or three or five, they're fighting against the government, they're gay, uhh, viper is a CIA agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAKilljoy/pseuds/JustAKilljoy
Summary: Name: Omen.Status: MIA.Just another rebel lost to the government—except, not, because Cypher won’t rest until he brings Omen back home.And if the FBI tries to stop them? There's a lot of bullets in this gun, and Cypher's not afraid to use it.
Relationships: Cypher/Omen (VALORANT), Jett/Sage (VALORANT)
Series: deep breaths, everyone; your hearts are pounding [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807408
Comments: 63
Kudos: 122





	1. of walnuts, snakes, and a crumbling hotel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blasphemyincarnate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasphemyincarnate/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can write shooting things and spy stuff but my Romance Game is bad so, just, watch out for that
> 
> this work is for my love blasphemyincarnate, desperate hurt/comfort hoe

* * *

“You _useless pieces of shit,_ ” Jett yells, and Cypher presses his shaking hands against his thighs. “You guys fucking left Omen behind?” 

He’s Cypher. Calm, collected, and the tactician of the group. Micromanager, the one who outsmarts the enemy—people have given him a thousand names over the course of his time in the Resistance against the government—but he’d rather take a bullet three times to the head than hear what he’s hearing right now. 

So all he can do is press his trembling lips together tightly as possible, and hope he’s not called on to speak, because there’s a lump in his throat and it grates on him like a sore. 

The group of squad members cowering in the corner scramble to speak, but Jett cuts them off again.

“The most important thing in a mission is that the squad leader is definitively _alive_ or _dead._ They have to be either with us, or you have to fucking make sure that there’s a bullet through their fucking head and they’re not breathing anymore. Do you understand what I’m saying?” No answer. “ _Do you?”_

There’s a reason Jett’s the leader of their group.

“Yes,” the members choke out, and Jett throws them to the floor, one by one. 

“What fucking geniuses. Now you’ve thrown Omen to a pack of wolves that will tear him the fuck apart. Do you know what I mean?” Jett says furiously. "What I mean is they will literally rip off every one of his toenails and every hair out of his scalp to get some information out of him, and then they’ll fucking kill him. Do you fucking understand?”

Cypher can feel the bile rising steadily in his throat, and a gloved hand rises to his neck, as if it can somehow stall it. Jett sees from the corner of her eye, and sighs, throwing the door to her office open. 

“Get out of my office. I don’t want to fucking see you guys anymore. Get the fuck out.”

They all scramble out as fast as they can, looking awfully like stray dogs. Cypher’s hand lowers from his throat.

“Thank you,” he manages, but Jett cuts him off with a swift embrace. Cypher’s hand rise hesitantly, before they fall again. 

“Don’t thank me,” she murmurs defeatedly into his ear. “I’m sorry, Cypher.” And then she pulls away, and for the first time ever, Jett is crying. Cypher’s voice breaks.

“No,” he manages, and then hastily wipes at the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “No, he’s going to come back. I’m going to bring him back.” _I don’t know what I would do without him._ “I’m going to bring him back,” he repeats, but there’s no response from Jett. He watches as she wipes her tears and then takes a deep breath. 

“I won’t stop you,” she says, and Cypher nods in gratitude. “But you have to remember, Cypher,” Jett continues, and she’s pinned him with a deathly stare. Cypher meets her head on. “This is the government. Not only do you have to bring him back, but _you also have to come back_ , do you understand me?” 

“I—“

“That’s your mission,” Jett cuts in forcefully. “You have a one hundred percent mission success rate, Cypher. That’s your mission, you hear me? Bring your boyfriend back, and come back alive yourself. You’re not allowed to fail. Got it?”

“Thank you,” Cypher manages to breathe, because really, he should be thankful. Charging in to god knows where with no clue where Omen is, whether he’s alive or dead—he knows it’s the worst idea, and that Jett is probably the only captain in the world that would let Cypher do this—hell, if Cypher was the captain, he wouldn’t let anyone do it. “I’ll succeed,” he promises, and Jett moves swiftly to her desk.

She picks up a pen, and begins writing on a mission form. “This is a top secret mission. You will be acting alone. You have a month. Your goal is to bring Omen back, and proof of mission success is both you and him.” And then she hesitates, before speaking softly. “Cypher…if you can’t bring him back alive, that’s o—“

“No,” Cypher interrupts loudly. “No,” he repeats. He tugs the mission form gently from Jett’s hand, and makes for her door. In the doorway, he pauses. “Thank you, again.”

“Stay safe,” Jett replies grimly, and then makes a gesture, shooing him out. 

* * *

He makes it to Washington DC six hours later, just in time to catch faint streaks of gold on the horizon before the sun rises. By the time he gets off the plane, there’s a pleasant sunshine streaming through the tall glass of the airport, and he feels a little warmer as he walks through the crowds of people already gathering for their flights. 

“One cup of green tea, please, and the Monday special,” he orders, and then settles in the booth of a cafe just a ways away from the airport exit. It’s precious time that he can’t afford, but he needs to flesh out the plan he came up with on the plane, and the only way to do that is to take some time. 

Omen’s team had been tasked with the assassination of one of the FBI investigators who’d come a little too close to discovering them. They’d flown to DC early Thursday morning, then spent the next three days scouting the target, if the reports from his team members were to be trusted. Saturday night was when they’d carried out the hit, but after Omen had sniped the man, he was never seen again. 

A very large window for anything to have happened to him, and almost no clue as to where he is. The only place Cypher can rule out is the CIA holdings, because Viper, stationed as an agent in the CIA, hasn’t seen any sign of Omen on their premises. 

The next course of action is to book the hotel Omen went missing at, and then scour the scene, Cypher decides. He’ll need some luminol to check for blood, because the FBI is thorough, and a quick detour to the hotel security room to check the feeds. After he’s checked those, he can decide what to do next, and where to go.

“Here’s your tea and candied walnut muffin, sir.” A styrofoam cup, steaming, and a nicely packaged muffin is set down in front of him, and Cypher nods in thanks. “Have a good day and enjoy!”

“You too,” he replies, and then rips off a candied walnut.

The key is getting luminol in the first place, meaning he has to contact Viper, who’s been supplying most of their chemicals. He has to head to an internet cafe to use their computer to contact her. 

He searches for an internet cafe on his phone, and sees that the nearest one is a few blocks away, so he stuffs his muffin into his pocket, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and uses his free hand for his tea. He’s spent enough time at the airport—any matter of minutes could mean a death for Omen, and that’s something he will never be able to afford.

The November chill of the DC air bites at his skin, but he just walks briskly forwards anyways. The crosswalks blur together—one, two, and then the last one, until finally, he’s standing before Bluenet Cyber Cafe, neon sign barely visible in the soft morning haze. He pays the fee for an hour, even though he won’t take over ten minutes, and then sits down on a black swivel chair.

It takes a few minutes for the computer to boot, and then he’s punching in a password for an obscure internet forum—no one uses it except for them, in fact—and then enters in a new subject.

_**User:** Caesarian _

_**Subject line:** Today I think I’m going to start an invisible ink hobby, can somebody give me some invisible ink and a pen to shine on the ink? Thanks in advance! (info: I live in DC.)_

_**Tags:** #snakes _

Cypher waits a few minutes before refreshing the page, and there it is—a reply to his thread. 

_**User:** Rattlesnake_

_**Re:Subject line:** I have some invisible ink, please come pick it up in 20 minutes._

_**Tags:** n/a_

Viper doesn’t need to state where to pick it up, because there’s only one possible place—the park near the CIA building, their designated meeting place. 

A quick search tells him that from the airport to Langley Fork Park is fourteen minutes by car, just enough time for him to get there and then some. He logs out, wipes all traces of communication visible, and then leaves his seat.

“Thank you,” he says to the lady at the front desk, and then exits the cafe, before standing on the steps of the cafe, looking out at the cars gleaming in the morning sun. He’s looking, more specifically for a taxi cab—and, without another word, he sees one. He raises his hand, and beckons. 

“Where to, sir?”

“Langley Fork Park, please,” Cypher responds smoothly, and then climbs into the passenger seat, putting his backpack below his feet. “As fast as possible.” 

“You got it.”

The driver steps on the gas, and soon, they merge with the morning DC traffic. Cypher pulls the candied walnut muffin out of his breast pocket and eats the smushed remains, swallowing it with the leftover panic in his system. Stress is only going to hinder him. And he can’t afford any roadblocks.

Otherwise, he’ll never forgive himself. 

* * *

By the time he gets to the parking lot of the Langley Fork Park, there’s four minutes to spare, and his muffin is gone.

“Thank you,” he says to the cab driver, and tips him generously before grabbing his backpack and stepping out of the cab. The sky is grey, a stark contrast to the morning sun when he first got off the plane, but it hasn’t rained yet, so Cypher counts it as a blessing. 

His eyes roam the edge of the forest—somewhere, to the right, in a little space between a birch tree and a large, mossy boulder, is Viper. He’s only been to the meeting spot once, as, most of his missions deal with outside of the country—most of the missions in country are left to Omen and Brimstone—but he still doesn’t hesitate, and immediately sets off.

The grass is cool beneath his boots, a light layer of frost like potato starch. As he approaches the line where the field meets the line of trees, he checks to make sure his phone is completely shut down, and then lingers slightly, before disappearing entirely, the thick orange foliage bright enough that he blends in completely with the nondescript dirt. Fitting, since Omen’s always called his outfit dirt.

_Omen_.

_“_ You here for the invisible ink?” a voice drawls, and Cypher nearly stumbles on a nearby log. He doesn’t, though, because he’s not second-in-command for nothing, and simply straightens himself. 

“This…is not the meeting place,” he offers, and Viper raises her eyebrow, before examining the cuffs on her blazer. It’s the same suit Cypher’s always seen Viper in while working at the CIA—black blazer, crisp white collar, nice pants, and high, high heels. 

“I got bored,” she says shortly, and then sighs. “Long time no see, Cypher.” Then she hands him a plastic bag, white, with the red words “ **T H A N K Y O U** ” printed on them in faded letters, and Cypher takes it, nodding in gratitude. He stuffs it quickly into his backpack, which is, to be honest, fairly empty, because Cypher never takes much for missions. The luminol sinks to the bottom, 

“How is work?” Cypher asks, and Viper rolls her eyes crossly.

“Same shit as always. I hate my boss, I hate the government. Nothing new.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“If I weren’t fighting for the resistance, I would’ve quit this job a long fucking time ago,” Viper mutters. “There are other places a graduate chem student can find a job, I’d like to think.”

Cypher feels the corners of his lips quirk up at that, and he pats his backpack. “Not many where you can find luminol, though.”

Viper shrugs. “Who knows.” And then she’s back to the fidgeting with her cuffs, a grimace on her face, as if she’s so incredibly disgusted with them. “You should get going, Cypher. If you don’t bring Omen back alive—“ she pins him with a glare, and all Cypher can see is poisonous green. “I’ll kill you.”

But luckily for Cypher, he’s long grown used to Viper’s shenanigans, and he finds it in himself to laugh, though sparingly, because the overbearing weight of time and Omen’s wellbeing presses on his head like a migraine. “Don’t worry,” he quietly assures. “If I can’t bring Omen back, I won’t be able to live with myself.” 

And the words hang over his shoulder like a ghost, because he knows he can’t live in a world without Omen. 

An approving nod from Viper. “See you someday, Cypher.”

“Thanks for the ink.”

And with that, Cypher heads out of Langley Fork Park, and looks for a cab. Next stop? Americana Hotel, just on the outskirts of the airport he’d left earlier.

* * *

Americana Hotel is an average, but not particularly outstanding hotel—same old six-to-nine breakfast as any other hotel, with the same curtains and lamps and beds. The prices are low, for the folk who can’t afford to live in the Hyatt Regency close by, and the quality so in-the-middle that no one’s ever remembered them. It’s got a mirror in each room, but most hotels do, and the only thing that makes it any different than any other hotel is that it’s run by, well, them.

Them, as in Valorant, the resistance.

It was a perfect front—perfect, until the FBI investigator got onto their trail, so Omen had to kill him before they lost control of Americana. 

Security’s tightened at the Americana after the hit, so, if Cypher’s being completely honest, there’s a high chance he’s walking into a trap.

“I’ll take a single bed,” Cypher says, and slides two hundred dollars in cash over the counter. “Four nights.”

Four nights is the most he’ll give himself, and four nights is already generous enough. But he knows Omen—he knows Omen all too well, and it’s been two days already. Omen, at most, can last a week in the hands of the FBI (if that’s where he is), so four days is the most he’ll give himself. The last day is, well, reserved for their flight. Or, their death day—but Cypher won’t let that happen.

“Thank you for reserving Americana, I hope you have a great day, sir,” the cashier replies with a smile, sliding his room card and two coupons for breakfast over the ugly granite counter. “Please call us if you have any needs!”

“Thank you,” Cypher returns, and heads to the second floor to set his bag down. The room is average as ever—dusty, burnt orange curtains, a lampshade with streaks of dust and grime, and a bed, off-white sheets tucked into the sides of the weirdly patterned bed frame. 

There’s a safe in the closet—average, as always. The FBI could crack it if they wanted to, but even so, Cypher throws his laptop in there, and sets his password as 6636, for O-M-E-N. Then, it’s the luminol and light in his breast pocket, and his phone up his sleeve, in case of emergency. 

Airport security would butcher him for having a gun, but luckily, the Americana is working for them. In a panel underneath the desk, he finds a Desert Eagle 50 AE, looking a little worse for wear, but functional. The magazine is fully loaded, and hidden a little bit deeper in the crumbling wall are two extra magazines. He slips them all in his other sleeve, and then locks his door quietly.

The ascent to the roof is quiet—oddly quiet, he supposes, but maybe the Americana just isn’t having the best business. It isn’t a holiday, nor is it the season for lots of customers, but at the same time, the Americana is so close to the Reagan airport, and hotels near the airport usually do well. DC is, after all, the capitol. Cypher decides to take the risk anyways, because he doesn’t have time.

First he has to inspect the security feeds, so that’s where he heads. 

After the security guard sitting in front of the monitors is quietly and cleanly knocked out, Cypher feeds him a heavy duty sleeping pill and forces him to swallow it. Then he positions the guard on the chair, and gets to work.

The walls are scoured for any possible entrances, and exits—anything a person could hide in. Then he looks for bugs and cameras, and when he finds none, he heads to the desk, and begins working on the monitors.

It’s easy enough to identify individual locations. On it, he can see a couple of patrol officers—interestingly enough, most are near the entrance to the rooftop. Maybe it’s just paranoia talking, but Cypher’s got the vaguest idea that they’re looking for a person just like Cypher, someone who’s sticking their noses into something they shouldn’t be. But then again, they’ve left the security room wide open, so maybe a coincidence?

Definitely not a coincidence, Cypher thinks grimly, once he sees them heading down the corridor, where, to the very right, the security room sits—the room he’s in. They know.

There’s no time to go over old footage to find Omen now. The only thing he can worry about is getting out.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and stares at the monitors one last time. If he doesn’t leave now, he’ll never be able to leave. 

He can only pray he’ll make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be two more chapters to this baby, please look forward to it :)
> 
> also if you wanna play valorant w me feel free to DM me!!
> 
> come harass me on tumblr at draw-a-sliver-of-a-moon or @justakilljoyy on tweeter and also STAY SAFE


	2. of bullets, rental cars, and a blinking tracker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cypher falls into trouble. The tide turns right when he needs it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so there's slight mention of blood/gore, not anything particularly graphic, but if you're not into that stuff please be cautious from the words "The next step is to find" to "at last, he allows himself to rest". 
> 
> AND WITH THAT please enjoy this chapter :)

Cypher’s first ever kill was a hit—strange, he guesses, that they would entrust a hit to someone who’s never killed before, but low on people and desperate, he was the only viable option.

Over the years, death has never become easier, per se, but quicker, and more efficient. More necessary.

In a matter of life or death, Cypher has never thought about the other party, but rather, how to get rid of them as fast as possible. How to sidestep them and trick them and come out victorious—how to outsmart the enemy and keep the one most valuable thing: his life.

So, with half a minute to spare before he loses that most valuable thing, he digs out his Desert Eagle and points to the door.

If he rushes out, he dies, Surprise is only surprise when one party is surprised—if he rushes out, there’s no telling where they are, or if they’ve already set him up—so in order to stay on top of the FBI, he’ll have to stay in the security room, and hope that this will be enough surprise to take them out cleanly.

The security cameras will have to go, he decides, and as fast as he can, he pulls the plugs on the computers, before resuming his spot at the door. It’ll have to be enough for now. It’s a risk, he knows, because now he won’t know where the FBI are—for all he knows, they could be right outside the door now—but if he manages to escape, he won’t be on camera.

And if he dies, he won’t be on camera either.

With an ear pressed against the wall, he begins to hear muffled footsteps approaching the door, and he backs up silently, both hands wrapping around his handgun firmly. He braces himself—and there. The door opens, and six men enter the room, pistols drawn.

Cypher takes the first two out immediately—two bullets for two people, as good as he can get—and then uses their momentary shock to take out two more. His handgun has a silencer, but still, it’s bound to attract attention, so as quick as he can, he draws on the other two.

On the contrary, the FBI handguns don’t have silencers, and the two guns make sickening cracks as they fire.

Cypher feels the pain only moments after the bullet shells hit the floor.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and quickly finishes off the other two before taking a deep breath, surveying the room, and at last, peeking down at his lower abdomen.

He’s been shot before—multiple times, but never from such close range, since he’s usually a long-range fighter, and it hurts like a bitch. Coupled with the heavy lead smell floating around the room from the gunpowder, and it’s safe to say that he’s a little more than just dizzy.

Sage’s words come to mind suddenly, through the thick haze of pain: “Slow your bleeding, and then make sure you were never there.” His coat will have to do for now, because he doesn’t have much else to slow the bleeding. Then, bending down as stiffly as he can, he fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops at the sprays of his blood on the wall—DNA is a death sentence, so he’ll have to be as thorough as possible.

Based on the lack of response from really, anybody, Cypher knows that there’s no one living on this floor of the building, right below the roof. It means that the FBI really had planned the ambush. He can’t afford to get caught now, so with one gloved hand pressing tightly on his stomach, he hobbles out of the room, and walks as quickly as he can to his hotel room.

As soon as his door is closed, and he’s done a once-over for any bugs or cameras, it takes all his power not to immediately collapse onto his bed. Instead, he guides himself to the armchair, and sits down slowly. The only thing he can do is tie his coat tightly around his waist, and hope for the best—that he’ll be able to continue.

Not long after, the hotel room phone rings.

“Hi, I heard gunshots. Is everything okay?” he says, feigning innocence, and the concierge replies promptly.

“Yes, sir, we’ve got a bit of a situation. The manager has asked us to inform you to stay inside of your room for the time being while the FBI investigates.”

“I see,” Cypher says, and tightens his grip on his coat. “Is room service still available at this time?”

“Yes, what can I help you with?"

"Please bring up a bottle of whiskey to room 216, thank you,” he manages, hangs up, and then finds it in him to laugh. He’s handling this pretty well, all things considered—but being shot is the last thing he needs, because running around injured, possible into the biggest danger he’s ever faced, isn’t the brightest idea he’s ever had, and yet’s, he’s willing to, because Omen needs him to.

As he waits for the whiskey, he decides to take a risk and fishes his phone out of his pocket. After connecting to a VPN, he logs into the forum, and punches in his status.

_**User:** Caesarian _  
_**Subject line:** Shot, lower left abdomen. Will be digging bullet out in a moment. Whiskey + cauterization? _  
_**Tags:** #rosemary and thyme _

It’s none of his usual hidden meanings and code words—to be fair, in his state, he couldn’t think of one if he tried. A huge risk, but he firmly believes that dying is a bigger risk.

  
He refreshes to see two responses.

_**User:** Kaze _  
_**Re:Subject line:** no fucking dying dumbass _  
_**Tags:** n/a _

_**User:** Rosemary and Thyme _  
_**Subject line: W** hiskey/cauterization is a good choice. Please be careful of your internal organs and veins. Go to a hospital if needed, we can plant a reason for you. Also, Moron, when you get back, we need to have a talk. _  
_**Tags** : n/a _

Attacked verbally by Jett and the impending horror of having a talk with Sage. If Cypher’s not dying from this bullet, he will be dead at the hands of the couple anyways. He didn’t think Sage would have agreed with this mission very much in the first place, so he supposes he can’t be too terribly surprised.

A knock on the door.

“Your whiskey, sir,” a voice calls, and Cypher hastily wraps a bathrobe around himself to conceal the blood before going to open the door, one hand resting gently on his handgun. He peeks through the peephole to see the lady from the front desk earlier, the one he checked in with—her red hair is just vibrant enough that he remembers it.

He undoes the latches, and pulls the door open. The concierge smiles brightly, and holds out the bottle of single malt.

“I’ll charge this to your room tab,” she offers, and Cypher nods in gratitude, before taking the bottle. He keeps a tight grip on it—his head is spinning, and if he doesn’t keep a tight grip on it, he’s half sure it’ll be spilled on the floor before he can even register it.

“Is the kitchen open? I would like some raspberries,” he asks as casually as possible and the lady’s eyes widen. Ah. She knows.

“Sorry sir, the kitchen is not open at this time, and we don’t have raspberries,” she responds slowly, and regards him with caution. He’d really asked whether he could go see Raspberry, the agent stationed at the Americana, but he guesses the FBI really did a number.

“Thank you,” he says, and then gently shuts the door.

The next step is to find a piece of flat metal he can use. With unsteady steps, he sets the single malt down on the counter, and then takes a deep breath, before bending down slowly. After searching through his backpack, he finds his nail clipper, and unhinges the flat bit. It’ll have to do.

His hands are shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s from the sheer amount of blood he’s lost, or the stress. It’s not his first time getting shot, but it sure is the first time he’s digging the bullet out of himself. In the past, it was standard to have the team members treat each other, but as it is, now, there’s no one to help him. Washington DC is a city full of enemies, and Cypher can only trust himself.

(Plus, in the past, it was always Omen who’d done this for him.)

For now it’s just prep—disinfecting, and getting tipsy. Cypher’s half tempted to shoot the whiskey bottle after fumbling with the stopper for a good minute, but eventually, he swings it against the table, and it dislodges itself.

There are plastic cups on the counter, shitty styrofoam cups for the equally shitty coffee they offer. He takes a cup, pours it a quarter full, and downs a mouthful. Then he drops the flat bit of the nail clipper into the remainder of the whiskey, and watches it in the liquid as the shot works its way down his esophagus and into his stomach, leaving a burning and warm trail behind it.

After taking another three mouthfuls straight from the bottle, he’s just on the verge of tipsy, enough that he can shimmy out of his coat and shirt with minimal pain. They’re discarded, and then Cypher grabs his phone, and sets it on the table, points the camera towards his wound. It’s a fleshy, bloody mess, but without hesitation, he pours a shitton of whiskey onto it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and holds his breath until the white-hot pain subsides into numbness. Round two. He pours a good amount on it again, and then drinks another mouthful. If he’s drunk enough, maybe he’ll forget about the pain.

The flap bit of the nail clipper is retrieved from the whiskey, and Cypher holds his breath, and sticks the bit into his wound, searching for the head of the bullet.

The pain is overwhelming, and Cypher grits his teeth so hard he thinks they’re going to break. With one steady push, the bullet dislodges, and flicking his wrist, it drops out, and falls onto his coat. Then he’s left gasping and heaving for a good minute, hand over the wound, riding the last waves of pain. It’s bleeding freely now.

After stumbling to the bathroom and filling his tea kettle with water, he wedges the flat bit of nail clipper between the bottom of the kettle and the heating electric pad the kettle sits on. Once the water starts boiling, he’ll get to the nasty work—cauterization.

For now he just has to clean up the wound. He washes away the blood with whiskey and then pinches his wound together, just like how Sage taught him. It’s different doing it on himself—when Omen does it, it’s fast and painlessly, Cypher too drunk to distinguish much. But the lack of the man is a sobering reminder of what he’s here to do, and he can’t afford to fail.

With bloodstained gloves, he grabs the flat bit of metal. and presses the searing metal against the wound he’s pinched together. He can’t help the strangled noise that rises out of the back of his throat, but he doesn’t hesitate, and watches as his skin closes together.

Safe, for now.

At last, he allows himself to rest.

* * *

Being shot by the FBI is unfortunate, but from that, Cypher’s gleaned an important piece of information: they know he’s looking for Omen.

If they’re here in connection to Omen’s case, then logically, they should know where Omen’s being held. With all the gadgets he has—trackers, bugs—there shouldn’t be any problem finding where Omen’s being held. He only needs to find the right opportunity to stick the trackers and bugs on them without being caught.

After he'd woken up from his brief bout of unconsciousness after the digging-out-the-bullet stint, he’d debated several options—making a ruckus, and luring them out? Fast, but risky. Stalking them and following them? Wastes precious time, but easier to accomplish. At last, he’d decided on neither. He could combine them: leave immediately, and latch onto whoever he sees.

He has to make sure that no one knows he’s gone, both the hotel staff and the FBI. So, Cypher packs up his bags at 1 am and lowers himself through the second floor window of the Americana Hotel. It probably looks silly—a grown man hanging from a balcony like monkey bars, coat flapping wildly in the wind.

Once the coast is clear, he drops onto the concrete below him, and listens cautiously.

No one.

The FBI likes to think they’re stealthy, but in reality, it’s glaringly obvious which cars are theirs and which aren’t. Cypher counts at least four in the hotel parking lot, and once he’s absolutely certain there’s no one in the parking lot, he quickly sticks a tracer on the bottom of the bumper of each car, and a bug wedged in between the window and the car frame.

He’s about to turn away from the last car when he sees a peculiar line of scratches on the passenger side window. He isn’t particularly sure why it catches his eye until he takes a closer look—it’s three lines, going diagonally, just like how Omen always signs his name on mission forms. But three scratches are particularly common—there’s no reason it has to be Omen’s.

“I must be going insane,” Cypher murmurs after a moment of hesitation, but sticks another two trackers on it anyways, just in case the one on the bottom of the bumper is discovered. Call it wishful thinking.

And then he turns to the street, because there’s a cab he has to hail and another place he has to be.

* * *

Car rentals are closed, and Cypher realizes this only when he pulls up at 3 am.

“...Your stop, sir”, the cab driver says awkwardly after a moment of silence. Cypher gathers his things, clears his throat, and responds, equally as awkwardly,

“Thank you.” And then he gets out of the car, walking towards the closed car rentals with as much dignity as he can muster up.

Once the cab driver pulls away, Cypher sits down on the curb and groans. He could just…steal a car? It’s not like he can do anything more illegal than murdering six people, so in all honesty, stealing a car isn't looking too bad. He just needs a vehicle to follow the trackers—who cares where it comes from?

But at the same time, if he wanted to steal a car, he could’ve just done that in the hotel parking lot. He didn’t have to come all the way to car rentals to steal a car. So, with that, he decides to sit here until the rentals open at the break of dawn, 5 am. God, if Omen saw him like this—if anyone saw him like this, they would have laughed at him and let him die of embarrassment.

Oh, well. It’s a good time as any to check his trackers and see if headquarters has any new ideas.

All four cars show no sign of movement, and the bugs haven’t picked up anything, so Cypher heads onto the forum.

_**User:** Kaze _  
_**Subject line:** From Raspberry: the hounds are after you. _  
_**Tags:** #Caesarian _

“Ah,” Cypher says quietly, and as he starts to get up, four beaming headlights blind him. He runs.

* * *

People call Cypher cunning. They call him intelligent, a borderline sociopath, a manipulative but successful man—he’s heard enough to know that there are elements of the truth, but they would all laugh at him if they knew he was hiding from the FBI in the bushes.

Ah, well. The smartest solution might not always be the most complicated or taxing. He consoles himself that hiding in the bushes is a perfectly valid way of avoiding the FBI. Besides, it gives him time to check the trackers—all cars still haven’t moved—and time to gather his thoughts. Cypher has never been the type to carry out a mission without a meticulous plan, but in his rush to rescue Omen, he was both shot and discovered, which really speaks to how well he’s doing. It’s about time he spends the effort to actually plan out his actions.

He hides, and he hides, but the headlights never go away. They stay there until the sun begins peeking over the DC clouds—another day, one day less he has in order to find Omen—but there’s no one coming from the car, no sounds to be heard.

“Get out of the bushes, Cypher,” someone calls amusedly, and Cypher raises his head cautiously to find Reyna with an eyebrow cocked. Well, there goes his plan—this mission has possibly been the worst he’s ever carried out.

“Reyna,” he says, and then shakes all the leaves and bugs off of himself before disentangling from the branches. “Why are you here?”

She sniffed. “I believe you should thank me first. I got rid of all those pesky agents.”

“Thank you,” Cypher mutters, and stumbles out of the bushes to see several dead bodies. “Ah, I see.”

“Yes, as I said, I got rid of those little pests,” Reyna says, tossing a magazine clip in the air. “Very easy. They were very weak.”

“Why were you here in the first place?” Cypher asks curiously, walking over to examine their cars. The dusty Cadillac would do nicely in place of the car he came to rent (or steal, if he’s being honest) in the first place—good engine, excellent seats, and very classy. “Did someone send you?”

“Jett said you are a dumbass,” Reyna replies bluntly, because Reyna is blunt. Cypher winces. Some things simply can’t be denied, and he’s afraid this is one of them. “I heard you got shot.”

“I…yes,” Cypher responds. “I did get shot.” He supposes this is a good time as any to leave—he’s rather afraid of Reyna, just like how he’s afraid of Sage. “Please send my regards to Jett. I’ll take this car and get moving now.” He climbs into the driver’s seat, the key still in the ignition, and is about to leave when Reyna holds up a hand.

“You are not looking through the FBI’s bodies? I’m sure they have many valuable items on them.”

Cypher clambers out immediately. “Of course.”

Reyna is a little less than impressed. “How are you the head of intel? What did Jett see in you?”

“My amazing looks and charm, of course,” Cypher returns as smoothly as possibly, and then reaches into his backpack for his second pair of gloves. Once they’re on, he flips over the body of the first FBI agent, and from his breast pocket, retrieves a phone, a wallet, and an ID card. He keeps the phone and ID card—the wallet is for the agent's family.

“Oh, to be a gay dumbass,” Reyna sighs wistfully. “I could never.”

Cypher fumbles with the second agent’s phone. “Thank you, Reyna. Are you sure you’re not needed elsewhere?”

Reyna rolls her eyes. “As a matter of fact, I am.” She tosses a magazine clip and a handgun to Cypher before adjusting her boots. “I’ll see you around, Cypher. And Omen too.”

There’s something in her gaze that tells Cypher it’s not so much of a suggestion as a command. He raises his hand in a mock salute, before bringing his attention to the agents again. He doesn’t have much time left.

When he looks up again, Reyna’s gone.

* * *

Whenever Sage comes home with new recruits, it’s always Cypher’s job to run them through the basics of reconnaissance and infiltration.

“Disguises are important, but they are not the most important,” Cypher always starts. “The most important part is to look and sound like you belong. Only then will a mission be successful.”

It’s a piece of wisdom he’s held close to his heart. If the recruits do not feel confident and lively in someone else’s skin, they won’t do very well on missions, and could jeopardize their entire squad. It’s human intuition, really, to sense when somebody is uncomfortable—when that happens, the seeds of suspicion will be sown forever, and it will either blossom into harm for the team, or remain dormant, but it will not disappear.

It’s for this exact reason that Cypher sits calmly at a cafe in an FBI agent’s clothes, watching the tracker, largely unperturbed. In order for his disguise to work he has to not only look like the agent, but he has to act like him too, and this takes work and a bit of time in order to bring himself into the FBI’s mindset.

“Your coffee, sir,” the waiter says, and sets down a steaming hot styrofoam cup. Cypher nods his head in thanks, and then watches the tracker a little more. When it begins to move, he too will begin to move.

But it’s still early in the morning—six am, probably around the time the agents stationed at the hotel will wake up. So, Cypher has to wait a little longer before there will be motion. He sips at the edges of the scalding coffee. The aroma is enough to wake him up a little—Pavloving himself, perhaps.

“This is for you, Omen,” Cypher murmurs, and sprinkles a pinch of sugar into his otherwise black coffee. Not too much, otherwise he’ll vomit. Unlike Omen, he’s not a fan of sugar, because Omen doesn’t have taste buds, and Cypher does. Then he downs the coffee.

The cafe is peaceful enough that the corners of his lips turn up. He’s in control now—all he’s waiting for is the FBI to land in his trap, to take him to Omen—much better than just hours earlier, hunted and shot by the FBI. But now that he’s one step ahead of them again, he won’t lose, no matter what.

So he sits there, and inspects at the tracker with patience.

He traces the Timgad Coffee logo and waits a little longer.

And at last, at 6:56 am, the tracker begins moving. Time, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blasphemyincarnate gets to read these first (because i love her n also because i can't edit shit on my own) so here's her very valuable input:
> 
> ~DUMBASS,,, kudos to that fucking cab driver tho  
> ~"what a weird guy. could offer to drive him somewhere else but actually im just gonna leave him here"
> 
> ~cypher, getting in the cab: car rental please  
> ~cab driver, a local, well aware the car rental is closed: :eyes: ok
> 
> anyways i hope you enjoyed that chapter!! 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr at draw-a-sliver-of-a-moon or @justakilljoyy on tweeter if ya want
> 
> with that, please look forward to the next (and last) chapter and stay safe :)


	3. of digital snail trails, cerulean, and thrown embroidery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cypher brings Omen home, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI MY LOVELIES  
> pretend i didn't disappear for like two weeks
> 
> enjoy this last chapter :))

“Have a great day, sir,” the waiter calls, and Cypher pauses to give a brief wave before pocketing his phone and pushing the cafe doors open. A draft of wind blows away the atmosphere of coffee and takes with it the hem of his muddled blue coat, and he holds his hat so it doesn’t get blown away with them.

The coat is definitely a downgrade from his coat, but to play the part of an FBI agent, it means losing a few pockets and also dealing with a collar that’s much too high for his liking.

The high collar is more Omen’s thing. If he weren’t wearing a hood all the time, Cypher’s sure Omen would have a closet full of high-collared coats. But it’s more of a hindrance for Cypher—he likes a mask more. It’s more secure and, in his opinion, way cooler, not that he would ever tell Omen. But a mask isn’t viable at this point, considering he’s supposed to be playing the part of an FBI agent.

The Cadillac is still waiting for him in the parking lot, undisturbed, and Cypher quickly does a once-over for bugs and trackers before sliding into the front seat. There’s no saying whether the FBI’s caught onto him—even if they haven’t, Cypher’s always been rather paranoid, and it’s always better to check anyways.

His hand shakes when he goes to turn the key in the ignition, and he blinks momentarily in surprise before he realizes that he’s actually nervous.

If he’s successful, he goes home with Omen. If not, they both die.

“No time to waste,” he says to himself, and shakes his hands, as if it gets rid of all the nerves. The engine comes to life with a quick sputter, and then dies down to a low hum. Once it’s comfortably running, Cypher pulls a glove off and takes his phone out of his pocket to examine the trackers.

The trackers are his favorite part of the tools he has—comfortable blinking dots on a map, easy to understand, easy to follow. Easy to get what he wants.

By the looks of it, they’ll be passing by the cafe soon. So, all he has to do for now is wait for them.

If his suspicion is right, the cars will be heading to the FBI headquarters—they’d want to keep a close eye on such a high-profile case as Omen, and the safest place would be their headquarters. Although, there’s also the possibility that they’d send him out to some other location for that exact reason, but if the Americana’s any indication, they’ll probably be using Omen as bait in order to catch him.

A blue blinking dot approaches him, then a green, then a red, then the car with three trackers—yellow, orange, and purple—and then, one by one, they pass the parking lot he’s sitting in.

It’s like he’s always done from now on—he stays a good block away, following the route the trackers make. Omen’d once affectionately nicknamed them digital snail trails, and the words float around in his head over and over again as his eyes trace their path.

Once the trackers have passed the intersection light, Cypher changes the car gears and then braces himself.

His gloved hands grip the steering wheel just a bit tighter as he rolls out of the parking lot. From now on, until whenever he finds Omen, there’s no messing up.

He stops at the red light of the intersection before checking the trackers again. He’d memorized the DC map pretty thoroughly on the plane flight, so if he remembers correctly, they’re heading in the direction of the FBI headquarters.

Still there could be a million different possibilities. Maybe they’ve discovered his trackers and are messing with him. Maybe they have no actual idea where Omen is. Maybe this is just a routine sweep of the city and Cypher is completely unknown to them. With so little information to go off of, he’s taking a huge gamble.

The last tracked car flies past the next intersection just as Cypher’s light turns green. Oh, well. This is the best lead he has. He follows the flow of early DC traffic into the heart of the city.

It’s a tentative balance—he’s far enough that he can’t see them, meaning he’s relying solely on his tracker, but he also has to keep just close enough that if there’s any sudden movements, he can keep up. Paired with the fact that he’s, well, extremely nervous, it’s a miracle he’s managed to stay on top of things.

He follows them through a right turn, and then two more blocks. When he sits at the intersection of E Street, he’s overcome with the sudden idea to check his rearview mirror. Behind him is an ash-colored Infiniti, a man with sunglasses behind the wheel. A niggling thought cautions him that he’s seen the car before—somewhere earlier, perhaps? Something about the car doesn’t sit right with Cypher, so he takes note of the driver before checking the trackers again.

They’ve turned again, so Cypher turns too. Once he’s come to a full stop at the next red light, he checks his rearview. The driver says something—his lips are moving, but Cypher can’t quite catch what it is. Lip reading was always Sage’s specialty. But it’s not hard to see that it’s an FBI agent—as he said, FBI cars are rather easy to spot if you know where to look—so clearly there’s something they know that he doesn’t know.

When he looks back at the trackers, it’s to his faint horror that he finds that the trackers are all moving in different directions.

The blue and green trackers turn left at the intersection. The red turns right. The last, with three blinking trackers, a multicolored snail on his digital world, drives forward.

When he looks back, the ash-colored car behind him’s gone.

“Fuck,” Cypher mutters. He’s got seconds before his red light turns green—seconds to make the decision of which car to follow. “Think, think, think,” he says through clenched teeth, and his mind whirls in circles.

They’ve found out about the trackers, he thinks, and are splitting up to confuse him. That’s the only explanation for the agent—they’ve discovered that he’s following them, and are splitting up in order to throw him off their trail. So maybe none of them are heading to where Omen is—would they take the risk of possibly leading him to the right place, where Omen’s held?

They would. They would if it was the FBI headquarters, where the security’s probably the tightest in the nation, where they could easily catch him—they could use this as a trap to lure him in and dispose of both him and Omen.

So there’s really three options here: either they’re all heading to the FBI headquarters, none of them are, or a few of them are.

The blue and green cars have started onto the highway, in the direction away from the FBI headquarters, so Cypher rules them out. There’s not enough time to do a full loop with them. That leaves the multicolored car and the red car—he has to hurry up and choose, or—

A blaring car horn rouses Cypher from his thoughts. He looks up to see a beaming green light.

He’s always trusted his gut. Intuition, in the end, is more than just a feeling—some call it a sixth sense, a piece of us that’s so human yet so animal—so maybe he’ll be wrong, or maybe he’ll be right, but either way, he’s following the multi-colored car. He steps down on the gas pedal hard, and takes the path forward.

Something in the back of his head reminds him that there likely won’t be a second chance for Cypher. At some point, they’ll have to go to the place Omen’s being held, and if they don’t destroy the trackers, at some point, Cypher will eventually find Omen. So it’s more likely that after tonight, Omen will be killed.

He’s willing to give his life up to make sure that doesn’t happen. One failed mission isn’t much, is it?

* * *

User: Caesarian 

Subject line: Cats among hounds?

Tags: Kaze, Rosemary and Thyme, Rattlesnake

User: Rattlesnake 

Re:Subject line: Two. Secretary 2, 3. You’re there to discuss Friday’s shipment of bullets.

Tags: n/a

* * *

He ends up in the FBI headquarters. 

The security is easy enough to get past—he’s not the head of intel for nothing, even if Reyna is skeptical at best. It’s as simple as holding a stack of papers and rushing in with bold, confident steps, and a worried look on his face. They only stop him for an ID check and a metal detector, and with that, he’s in. The FBI are good at mind games, but Cypher’s much better.

He’d gone over the FBI floor plans on the flight to DC. With too much time on his hand and a hyperactive brain, it’s the least he could’ve done—besides, it’s not like he sleeps on the flights. Planes are much too cold and much too uncomfortable for Cypher to fall asleep; every airline’s got its share of rough seats and rowdy people. 

With the information from Viper, it’s not too hard to find the office that Secretary 2 and Secretary 3 work in.

It’s a room of cubicles behind a glass wall and glass door. After gathering his wits, he pushes open the door, and with quick strides, as if he has urgent news, he quickly makes his way to the two cubicles in the back of the room, where their two agents are stationed. 

“Ms. Angela, Mr. Hua,” he greets them, and then places the stacks of paper on their desk. He can see there’s wariness in their eyes and a faux trust on their face—well trained, then—and pulls a chair from an empty cubicle opposite them. “I’m here to discuss Friday’s shipment of bullets—Mr. Jackson said you two would have the details for me? It’s urgent, you see.”

“Ah, yes,” Ms. Angela responds, and pushes the papers Cypher brought in towards Mr. Hua. He takes the papers and files them, as if they’re of importance. Their performance is key. Just for show, Cypher taps his foot impatiently, as if he really can’t wait.

It’s not as much of a fake performance as a real impatience, not that Cypher would admit it. If his deductions are correct, Omen’s somewhere below him—not even a ten minutes walk away, somewhere, hurt or dead and he’s this close to finding him. 

“Here you go, Mr. Aamir. Sorry for the delay.” Cypher takes the warm manila folder and sticks it into his bag—rather, the dead agent’s bag, but nobody’s looking too closely right now—and then dips his head.

“Thank you, I’ll be going now.”

* * *

There are twenty-two broom closets in FBI headquarters, two on each floor of the building. After clearing the third floor west wing hallway, Cypher picks the lock of a broom closet and then locks himself in one to check the folder in peace, and nothing else. 

The broom closet smells of old bleach and chlorine, as well as years worth of dust. He shines his phone flashlight at the corners to check for any dangers—a single fixture lightbulb, probably burnt out, several cleaning carts with spray bottles and towels, spiderwebs hanging from every possible surface—but doesn’t find much aside from a spider or two. The space between the door and the shelves is just enough for him to squeeze into—Omen could probably fit with him if he really tried, Omen has the slimmest waist he’s ever seen—but there’s not much time to think about that right now. 

On first glance, the papers in the manila folders seem like official FBI documents, but wedged at the very bottom is a map and two pages of notes.

The map is already a warning to him. 

Subject being held in the basement, only accessible to agents above certain level of clearing. See map for basement layout.

All of a sudden, tension’s out of Cypher’s stiffened joints and melting into the floor. Omen’s here. He’d been taking a huge risk timewise by following his hunch to the FBI headquarters, but it’s paid off, and Cypher’s so, so relieved.

But this is only the first step. Cypher’s never heard of an FBI basement, nor did he see it on the floor plans he was sent—though, in actuality, it’s probably less of of a basement and more of a prison—but putting Omen there means that he’s likely never coming back out, because they would never trust to release someone with information on their prison. 

This isn’t exactly news to Cypher, but it’s another reminder that he doesn’t have time. 

Three security guards, each take a hallway. Security cameras on every floor.

He's not worried about the security cameras. Security cameras are easy to defeat, and to destroy, but humans have one natural predator, and that’s other humans. If the ache in his stomach is anything to go by, he’ll have to be extremely careful around the guards. He can’t force his way into the room like he did back at the hotel. This time, he’ll have to work a little harder to provide a valid reason for entry as well as an efficient way of working things out.

Subject held in the cell marked x on the map. Only the guards and select agents have the keys to get in.

Well, it’s set then—he’ll have to knock out the guards, or divert them somehow in order to take their attention away from the basement, but also take the keys.

Cypher quickly skims through the rest of the information—nothing particularly he can use—and then takes a few minutes to thoroughly remember the layout of the basement. 

The agents Reyna killed had ID cards on them, and Cypher had taken at least three. If he’s correct, at least one of them should work for the door to the basement. But if that doesn’t work, he’ll have to force his way in, and that requires getting rid of the security guards and security cameras on the first floor too. If he has to do that, the chances of being found out are going to increase dramatically, so he hopes for the best.

Obviously the guards will recognize those who visit the basement, so Cypher has to account for that too. They only allow agents beyond a certain clearance into the basement. If someone they don’t recognize walks into the basement, they’ll definitely have questions for him—he has to be prepared to make up a legitimate reason to be there. The chances are low that they’ll take the “I’ve just started to work on this case” excuse, and even if they might, Cypher doesn’t want to take any chances.

After that, he’ll have to find a way to take their keys, and then divert their attention—could be knocking them out, or locking them somewhere. He’ll have to think on the fly with this case, unfortunately. There are too many variables and possibilities for him to make a concrete plan.

“Here goes,” he whispers to himself grimly, and slides quietly out of the closet.

* * *

The dead agent’s ID card works. 

Cypher knows he can’t celebrate too soon, but still, it’s a small victory as he slips past the heavy door and starts down the stairs. It’s a good sign as any if things are working his way. 

His feet fall silently on the last flight of the stairs. He’s met with a hallway not unlike the ones on the floors he’s seen above—florescent lights every few feet attached to the ceiling, reflecting off of white and beige tiled floor patterns extending to the edges of a cream-colored wall. It has the smell of a conference room, a little stuffy, with a sharp accent of Expo markers and carpet. 

It’s certainly not what he expects of a prison, but then again, this whole DC trip has been one surprise after another, some with (rather injurious) consequences, so he’s not particularly shocked.

If he’s not mistaken, the map laid out four hallways—one he’s staring down right now, and three hallways that branch off of the one he’s in front of. In the cubby of each hallway is a security room and a security guard. The notes had detailed their weapons and training, but Cypher can’t remember much of it. All he knows is that he should most likely refrain from being shot again, so Sage doesn’t kill him for being dead.

Since this is the FBI headquarters, brute force like the Americana is definitely out of the question. His best bet is playing mind games—leading the guards to believe he’s someone important, someone who belongs behind their iron watch and in the cell of a specific person (who he’d die for a million times over). 

“Hi,” Cypher greets the first security guard before she can call him out for not belonging, and tugs an agent ID out of his breast pocket. “I’m Carter Will, it’s nice to meet you. Could I take a look at Cell Three?”

The guard's eyes dart from the ID to his face. Clearly, she’s not too convinced. “No you’re not. You’re not Carter Will.”

“Yes I am,” Cypher replies dumbly, and his mind whirs for an explanation. He points to his ID picture. “That’s me, Carter Will.”

The guard snatches the ID from his hands, and points to the picture. “This guy has a blond crew cut. Your hair is black and wavy. This guy has green eyes. You have brown eyes. My conclusion is that you are in fact not Carter Will.” She frowns. “Look, man, how did you even get in here, I’m gonna have to call—“

Cypher holds out his hands. “No! No, wait, no, we can talk about this. I’m actually not Carter Will—“

“Shocking discovery,” the guard returns sarcastically, and Cypher frantically flaps his arms.

“I’m an agent,” he blurts. “The top levels sent me. I’m here to check whether your security is up to par. Don’t call them, I’m just doing my job.”

The guard gives him a once over, scanning over his clothes and his face. Something changes in her face—she probably recognizes the clothes (disgusting ash-blue coat and terrible gloves), and then she sighs. 

“You chose a picture of a guy who looks nothing like you. You, a Middle Eastern man, chose a Caucasian man as your ID picture, and tried to convince me that your name was Carter Will. Shit, man, I’m doing my job fine, but are _you_?”

Cypher winces—she told him off for an imaginary job and it actually hurt. Powerful. “Can you let me in to check your cells now?” he mutters, and the guard rolls her eyes. “Look, I was just poking fun at you, the ID wasn’t actually part of my assessment. I’m just here to check the cells and wanted to have a bit of fun.” He bows his head twice in apology sheepishly, and the guard scoffs. 

“Whatever, man. Have at it. But if you pull that on me again, I’m bashing your brains out.”

“It won’t happen again!” he squeaks, and runs past her with victory coursing through his veins. Only once he’s waited for a few minutes does he turn back, gently prodding her into a medicated sleep. “Sleep well,” he murmurs, and then, at the very last, opens the door to Omen’s cell.

* * *

The room is a blinding, blinding white—the walls are white, the chair is white, the mattress is white, the blankets are white, and the bright florescent white lights in every corner of the room are piercing to the eyes. Only a huddled figure in the right corner is not white, and the figure is clothed in a dirty blue violet, with frays on the hems of his sleeves. He doesn’t react to the sound of his door opening.

“Omen,” Cypher calls softly and numbly. No response.

He takes another step forward, and kneels down next to Omen’s resting form. He puts a hand on Omen’s arm and shakes him gently. “Omen,” he says again, and then there’s a hanging silence before, finally, Omen stirs.

His eyelids flutter, and Cypher sees pure cerulean in his gaze.

"Cypher," he breathes, and his eyes rake Cypher's form, piercing blue eyes droopy and tired. Cypher subconsciously tugs his coat just a little closer to himself. "You're...colorful.” Omen takes the ash-blue coat in his hands, and runs his hand down the waterproof fabric, as if he’s unsure Cypher’s really there.

Cypher smiles. "A bit different than my usual dirt coat, eh? I picked this off of a dead guy. ”

Omen doesn’t respond, and instead, tugs the coat’s edge out of Cypher’s grasp, just enough to see the reddish-brown seeping through his button-up shirt.

“You’re bleeding,” Omen breathes, and Cypher tugs it back.

“Not as much as you,” he responds, and traces the prints of blood on Omen’s cheek, on his lips, on his forehead, on the tips of his fingers, and on the backs of his palms. Omen’s fingers gently curl around his, and Cypher greets them before going on to trace the blood on his chest, on his stomach, on his thighs, and all the way down to his ankles.

“What happened here?” Cypher asks quietly, and points to a rip in his sleeve, crusted with dried blood. Omen shakes his head.

“Nothing much,” he responds. “Nothing you have to worry about. It doesn’t hurt.”

They sit in silence as Cypher bandages it as best he can with shaky hands. Omen trembles, and then coughs rack his form—dry, abrupt, painful. 

“Why is it so bright in here?” Cypher asks softly.

Omen pushes himself off of the ground slowly, and he rests his head against the very, very white wall. “I always thought they would leave me in the dark,” he says quietly, and Cypher’s breath catches painfully in his throat. “You always hear about people left in total darkness. They say it messes with you. The darkness is my friend. I thought I would be able to take it.” Omen’s gaze flicks to the lights in every corner of the room. “But here, I am always in the light. They lit up every corner of the room so that there would be no darkness. Twenty-four seven, always bright. I thought I was going to die.”

“Omen,” Cypher murmurs, and kneels so he’s level with Omen. There’s a pause in the white noise, and then Cypher’s leaning in, and Omen’s eyes are so, so blue. Cypher’s arms snake around Omen, cradling his head, and he leans in until their foreheads touch. The blinding white world around him melts into a deep indigo, deep blue. “Let’s go home, huh?” he whispers, and his breath intermingles with Omen’s in the small space between them. 

Omen’s hands creep up to his chest, and then to his high collar, the ones that Omen adore, and he tugs Cypher closer. Their lips lock, and a warmth blossoms in Cypher’s stomach—this is what he’s missed. This is what he’s willing to give his life up for, and if it isn’t the nicest and funniest feeling he’ll ever have. 

A laugh bubbles out of Cypher’s chest, and shatters the moment. Omen sighs, and pushes him away. 

“Cypher, you always fucking laugh when we have a moment,” Omen mutters, and Cypher snickers some more, still euphorically high, and wraps Omen in a tight embrace. Omen’s arms snake around his waist.

“I missed you, Omen,” Cypher says quietly in his ear. “And now I’m happy. So I’m laughing.”

Omen leans in to kiss him again—probably to shut him up, to be honest, because Cypher’s always longwinded when it comes to topics like these, and Omen’s long grown tired of hearing him repeat the same phrases over and over again. Kissing is much easier.

They break apart at last. They both know that their time is short.

“Can you walk?” Cypher asks, hand gently ghosting over Omen’s bloodied and bruised leg. Omen nods stiffly. Cypher’s skeptical at best, but he watches anyways as Omen grasps with one hand the edge of the chair and the other Cypher’s shoulder to boost himself up. There’s a long steady exhale, as if Omen’s preparing for something, and then a sudden hoisting motion. 

“Fuck,” Omen quietly hisses, and his grip on Cypher’s shoulder tightens. He’s standing—just barely. Cypher’s arms snake around his waist and holds him steady. There’s time to reprimand him later. But for now, they have to get out.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Omen sleeps for most of their drive back to VALORANT headquarters, a good twenty hours worth of endless roads and intersections. Cypher had taken care of most of Omen’s cuts and bruises, and fixed him up as best as he could—but he can't stop the coughing fits Omen has or the way he flinches when the sun beams through his windshield.

“Recovery is slow and painful,” Sage had told him once. Seeing Omen curled up on the backseat, in the shade of the tinted windows, Cypher’s inclined to believe those words, even though he might not like them. 

But he understands them, so the most he can do is wake Omen up for food and water, and sit with Omen's head on his lap while he watches the evening sky melt into a pot of dark blue and grey. And when he’s driving, all he can do is listen to Omen’s soft breathing mixed with the faint music seeping from his radio.

He’ll be there for Omen. Even if it’s the slowest, most painful recovery. He’ll be there.

Cypher’s blood is mostly caffeine once the door to the headquarters come into view, but the immense feeling of relief and happiness flooding through his system far overpowers the caffeine running circles in his veins. Omen’s safe. He’s safe. They’re back.

“We’re here,” he calls softly to the back of the car, and Omen stirs. Cypher opens the door to the backseat, and cards his fingers gently through Omen’s unruly hair before grabbing his hand, and fidgets with the bandages on his fingers—all five are there, Cypher thinks with a smile. He didn’t leave a single part of Omen behind.

Omen grips his hand tightly in return, and pulls himself up. The faint streaks of dawn beyond Cypher reflect momentarily in his eyes before he’s making for the door. Cypher helps him down.

They make their way into headquarters slowly—Sage would kill both of them if she found Omen walking on that leg of his—and pause at the entrance to their base’s common room to exchange a glance before opening the door.

Immediately, Jett comes into view, her white hair a blur of wind and the smell of some light perfume before she’s wrapped both of them into a tight, tight embrace. Cypher’s too overwhelmed to cry, overwhelmed by relief and happiness and stupid feelings, but Jett sobs freely into his shoulder. Cypher pats her back soothingly.

“Jett,” Omen greets quietly, and awkwardly pats her back as well. They spend a moment in the silence of the empty common room, with only Jett’s muffled sobs and sniffles echoing around the room.

“Alright,” Jett says, and lets go with a watery smile. “Sage definitely needs to see both of you guys. Cypher, Omen, come file the mission report later.” Then she wipes her tears with the backs of her gloved palms, fixes her hair, and rakes her eyes over Cypher and Omen one last time. “Go on, boys, chop chop.”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Sage is doing embroidery, from what Cypher can gather through the crack in the door.

He hasn’t _opened_ the door yet, because he’s afraid of Sage, but from what it seems, she’s not in a very good mood—her embroidery is progressing at an alarming rate, and if the frown on her face is anything to go by, Cypher’s going to be killed on impact the moment he enters the room.

“You’re a coward,” Omen says, and Cypher takes offense.

“No, I’m not, watch this," he replies, and opens the door. He immediately regrets this decision.

Sage throws her embroidery down—funny, he didn’t know the disk would spin like a frisbee in free fall—and storms to the doorway. There’s murder in her eyes, Cypher’s sure of it, and he would have run away if it weren’t for Omen still leaning heavily on him. For a second, she says nothing, but her shoulders rise and fall heavily, as if she’s processing and channeling her anger. Cypher looks anywhere but at her.

“Omen, Room 1. Wait for me.” She points at a pair of crutches leaning against the pale mint walls of the infirmary, and Cypher guides Omen to the crutches. As Omen leaves through the doorway, he sends an amused look back at Cypher. 

It’s a hopeless feeling, knowing that everyone in the world, even the one you love the most, is against you. 

“You are a fucking dumbass." He stares at her shoes—shiny black Doc Martens, he could have sworn Jett was wearing them last week, maybe they both have a pair? Couple goals. He tries to ignore her towering presence. “Cypher, do you hear me? Look at me.”

Cypher reluctantly peers up at her face—it’s not murderous, but not nice enough that he’d try anything. He nods meekly. 

“You could have waited for me—I would have given you the supplies you needed, I would have _told_ you some information so you wouldn’t rush in like an idiot—I cannot believe Jett didn’t tell me, why didn’t you _wait for me?_ ” And then Sage is crying, and Cypher looks back down at her Doc Martens. “And I didn’t even get to give you a med kit, or backup, you just ran off, and all I could do was stay behind and wait for your news."

“Don’t cry, Sage,” Cypher says softly with his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you. I should’ve waited for you.”

“I felt so helpless and so frustrated,” Sage continues. “And when you said you were shot, I was so worried. I thought to myself, I can’t lose two people in one day.”

“I’m back. And Omen’s back,” Cypher responds. 

Sage pulls him into a hug, a whirlwind of chrysanthemum and Oolong, and she says softly,

“I know. And I’m very, very glad. Welcome home, Cypher.”

**_Fin._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this !!! i had a blast writing it 
> 
> anyways sage and cypher are FRIENDS and nothing will change my mind
> 
> with that said drink water stay safe and have a wonderful day :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [operation no control (and the headline, "my love's bulletproof")](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26203456) by [blasphemyincarnate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasphemyincarnate/pseuds/blasphemyincarnate)




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